Of Shadows Past
by DominiqueMorgenstern
Summary: AU: Set in medieval Idris, Theodore Herondale finds himself imprisoned beneath the Gard in Alicante, and recalls the tragic truth that brought him there.


"'We're going to break you out, Theo. Don't worry, we have a plan.'" The water-stained piece of parchment had drifted through the arrow slit high up in Theodore Herondale's cell in the early hours of the morning. The note was written in the distinctive, overly-slanted scrawl of Theo's friend, Albert Penhallow. Theo had thrown it to the floor, where it had lain, the corners crisping in a single beam of sunlight, for hours.

Theo did not cherish any sanguinity about the success of their enterprise. Theo wished Albert had delivered the note himself, instead of sending his eight year old brother, Timothy. It would have given Theo the chance to personally tell Albert that his attempt to break him out would almost certainly end with his imprisonment, along with his parabatai's, Alice Branwell, and any other unfortunate soul he had recruited to help him. Theo was well acquainted with these cells, and in his first couple of visits, he had exhausted all possible escape routes, and earned himself four extra days of forced digestion of its scenery as a reward for his efforts. Theo knew that, despite his small stature, Albert was surprisingly agile and responsive next to his untrained parabatai, Alice, in a fight; but neither of their better qualities resided in strategy. Theo was always the one who did that. Albert was about as likely to burst open his cell as Theo was to saw through the iron bars using only his bootlaces.

His last spell underneath the Gard had been months ago, but Theo returned to the squalid diet of sour chunks of black bread, doused with dirty water or tepid ale, with surprising ease. The quickest canal out of the cell, of course, was his loathsome step-father, who was good friends with Inquistor Trueblood. But as his step-father was the very person whom Theo had repeatedly sinned against, and to whom he chiefly owed his current imprisonment, Fortune was distinctly snubbing Theo. Theo's mother, Giuliana, could perhaps have petitioned her ass of a husband to take pity on her as a grieving mother and release him for her sake; but as Richard Blackwell never cared for anything from which he couldn't gain some profit, his most probable reply would have been to tell his wife sharply to stop wittering about that worthless son of hers.

But Theo had known what he'd risked when he had finally ravaged his doubts enough to slip out of bed in the middle of the night, stolen all the money that he could find, and escaped; determined to never come back. His home, on the outskirts of Alicante, was not like the magnificent fortress-like manors of the Lightwoods and the Morgensterns in the country – like miniature Institutes in their own right; they had been built for the express purpose of indulging their owners' arrogant affection for the belief that everyone of their bloodline was Shadowhunter aristocracy. Theodore's home, however, was small, chilly and damp. He shared a puny, utterly unremarkable bedroom with his half-brother Nicholas. And Theo thanked the angel daily for his luck therein – the Lovelace children, he knew, were crammed in five to a bedroom, and with Ava Lovelace about to give birth to a sixth – Theo gladly endured Nicholas' snores.

When he had tramped around the house in the middle of that night, and extracted Richard Blackwell's chest of Downworlder spoils, taking it to the moon-lit window, he had been astounded at what he had seen. Theodore had known his step-father collected spoils, not to display, but like a miser would; but he had not realised the extent of his wealth. There had been so much of value, it was painfully obvious that Richard had been spinning an elaborate lie about the state of their finances for a long time. Theo had plunged his hand into the chest, and taken as much money that was tucked away (which was also a large amount), knowing that Downworlder spoils would be worth naught where he was going.

The mundane world; the human world. Theo had hardly heard anything of it; had never even come into contact with a mundane, despite the fact that it was his mandate to protect them. As Theo had ran, full-pelt, through the grassy, twilit fields, there was a vague ambition in the back of his mind to go somewhere very far away, in one of the Shadowhunter strongholds in the Far East, perhaps. Either way, his destination had been a place where he could remake himself entirely.

Before that day, Theo had heard talk of a demon nest on the edges of Idris – it had occurred to Theo that he might as well try to find it, kill as many demons as he could, and then perhaps die in the fight. He was already weak from his step-father's beating, and the exertion of running caused the wound around his eye to recommence bleeding. He had been forced to take shelter under a tree before he attempted to seek out the nest, and would have given himself an _iratze_ if he could have located his stele that his step-father had confiscated before he'd left – precisely for occasions such as these. Richard Blackwell found a malicious satisfaction in watching the injuries he had inflicted heal deliciously slowly, prolonging his step-son's pain.

Blood had coursed down his neck. Irritated, Theo had swiped at it. The back of his hand had come away dashed with streaks of fresh, orangey blood. He had lain down in the grass, hoping it might ease the aching in his gut. He knew ferocious bruises would mottle his entire abdomen tomorrow, courtesy of his step-father's hands and feet. Theo had not realised he had fallen asleep until he had discovered himself squinting into the morning sun, partially blocked by the frame of Albert Penhallow, and his mother, standing by him.

"How did you find me?" Theo had demanded, sitting up.

"We tracked you," Albert said, holding up Theo's stele, "With this."

Theo had felt a burning desire to punch him in the face. "And you betrayed me—to my _mother?_!"

Albert had had the decency to look abashed. Theo had felt so foolish; being caught like a five year old who had ran away, put out of temper. His mother looked desperate in the extreme, but Theo glared at her unsympathetically, knowing without doubt that she would tell her husband of her son's infractions against him.

Now, in prison, Theo tentatively touched the tender spot around his eye again – the swelling didn't feel diminished. The traumatised flesh remained hot and pulsating. Theo wondered if the cut would go bad and he'd lose his sight. Or perhaps he would contract a fever and die. Perhaps that would be best. When Richard had punched him, he had aimed directly for Theo's cheekbone, ensuring that the cold silver of his Blackwell family ring hit him squarely, unseaming the skin from the bone easily.

Pure determination that he would not fall in front of his step-father was the only thing that had stayed him from going to the floor. He had told himself to absorb the impact, while staring at the wooden dinner table, nursing his rage. If he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted he was surprised – his father usually beat him privately, where neither his son nor his wife could see; he had never openly hit him _over dinner _before. But Theo had provoked him – he had announced that he should like, hereafter, to be known as Theodore_Herondale_, which his father had, predictably, taken mortal offense at. "I will have you out! I shall not suffer your worthless breath polluting my roof any longer, do you hear me?!" His step-father had bellowed.

Theo was certain the whole of Alicante had heard him. As it was, Theo had merely said, in a plaintive voice, Raziel's truth: "I know. I don't intend on staying here any longer, I promise you."

Theodore had glanced up at Richard, who stood confounded by his step-son's seeming acquiescence.

_I _have _the bastard, _Theo had thought.

Quick as a lizard spying a buzzing insect, Theo had pounced on him, bringing Richard's forty-two year-old frame to the ground as easily as flower trampled underfoot. Theo had enjoyed the release of his anger, assaulting him with all the mercilessness of seventeen years worth of self-loathing; ingrained into him as nothing but the vile offspring of a good-for-nothing nephilim whose fingers were better acquainted with the nape of whiskey bottle, or the warmth of a mundane whore's skin, than a stele or a seraph blade. But that had all been a lie – Richard's lie, that Theo had unquestioningly swallowed all of his life. So were the dreadful circumstances of his birth – of Theo being the spawn of Joseph Herondale's vicious violation of his mother, a married woman, simply because he had desired her, and she had refused him. His father's act was one so despicable, commensurate of the worst sort of demon, that his father had been eternally banished from Idris and would have been stripped of his marks, had he not died just before his due was given him. It had all been his step-father's fabrication, to save everyone from knowing the humiliating truth – that he was a cuckold.

Theo had pounded into his step-father with everything he had, loving it; hearing distantly screeched pleas from his mother to stop. He had heard the scraping of the chair against the flags that must have been Nicholas getting ready to intervene. Theo redoubled his efforts. Richard, though, managed to get a few punches into Theo's stomach, which made Theo despise him more, and at the expense of his knuckles, Theo punched straight into Richard's nose, bursting it open like a bloody rose in bloom. Theo briefly lamented the impossibility of whipping out his seraph blade to slice the thing off his face completely, but it had been too late: Nicholas' hands were around his arms, restraining him. He had shrieked at him to stop, stop, he was a madman, a madman, he was going to kill father, he was going to—

He had felt a sharp blow through his spine – jolting him up, off his step-father. He had wondered if Nicholas had stabbed him. But then Nicholas' muscular arms had circled his neck, pulling, strangling. Then his step-father had somehow got to his feet, planting his foot in Theo's stomach again and again and again, grunting and panting with mingled pain and pleasure. Theo had seen spots in his vision; had wanted to vomit.

Suddenly, the glint of a golden whip struck between them, wrapping around Richard's leg. Theo had looked to the right, and there had stood his mother: tears staining her face, holding the whip. "Stop! Please!" She'd cried.

But Theo had been absurdly pleased: he could not recall the last time he'd seen his mother look so _alive. _She was trembling, but there was an incarnadine passion in flickering in the depths of her dark eyes that stirred ancient memories in him, memories of being incredibly small, and toddling into her arms. His mother had tugged harshly on the whip around his step-father's leg, and glared.

"Will you take that goddamned thing off my leg, woman!" Richard had shouted at her.

"No!" She'd shouted back. It was the first time, Theo thought, that he had ever heard her raise her voice to him. And her lifted voice was surprisingly powerful, silencing the rabble in the room. _She would have made a good Shadowhunter, _Theo had thought, a strange pride temporarily displacing his pain. _If she had given herself half the chance. _"He is my _son_!" She'd exclaimed emphatically, as if this was explanation enough. "I have been so far fore-bearing with you, husband. But by the angel if you hurt him again—"

"You'll what? What?"

And then his mother's face had fallen into its usual dismayed, quiescent mask as she realised her powerlessness. She knew how to wield the whip, but she could never hope to use it to control her brute of a husband, who was an unfortunately good Shadowhunter — despite his many failings. Richard would have felled Theo's mother in a moment, had she taken it into her head to use the whip against him. "Please," She said, her voice quiet. "Everyone, please, stop."

"You would let the brat _insult me thus?!" _His step-father's neck had been bright pink. Theo had imagined with relish one of the protruding veins exploding, his blood gushing out.

"Theo…. will stop, won't you, Theo?" His mother had looked to him, her eyes supplicating.

For her sake, Theo had nodded, reluctantly. Nicholas had slowly relinquished the hold around his neck. "Fine," Richard had said, coughing, spurting blood everywhere. His mother unwound the whip from around his ankle and ran over to him. Theo was about to get to his feet when another punch from his step-father nearly threw him to the floor, filling his mouth with blood.

"No!" He heard his mother shout, but Theo could not see her. He was catching his breath, suppressing the pain blasting through his jaw. "If you want to hurt him, you'll have to hurt me first," he had heard his mother say.

Theo knew his step-father beat his mother, when he felt so inclined — which was rare — but like his own beatings, Richard usually conducted his marital chastisements with the utmost discretion. He had heard his mother's whimpers, her muffled cries, often enough during the night, had witnessed her bruises. Theo had been, and remained, angry with her – that she never so much as attempted to defend herself, that she _allowed _herself to be mistreated; the thought that these performances were penance for her past sins sickened Theo. He had at least thought that his step-father would never dishonour his mother in public. But if Richard Blackwell had done so at that moment, Theo would have had no choice but to really kill him this time. And if Theo murdered his step-father, he would undoubtedly be stripped of marks and cast out of Shadowhunter society for the rest of his life. _Just like my father was, _he'd thought as he spat gouts of blood onto the floor, and then reminded himself – no, that was not true. His father had died a Shadowhunter. He, however, would be a mundane.

Theo was jolted back into the present by the sound of footsteps approaching. Inquistor Trueblood, tall and white-haired, appeared on the other side of the bars and solemnly folded his hands in front of him. "Theodore. We have decided you shall be trialled tomorrow by Consul Ravenscar, where he will sentence or acquit you of the crime of theft and butchery against your father, and attempted illegal escape from Idris." The creases around his mouth deepened as he spoke.

_Butchery? _Theo had thought, _ had not lived with Richard Blackwell for seventeen years._

Theo knew what he was about to say would antagonise him, but he could not resist. "Inquistor, allow me to delightfully inform you that I am no longer burdened with the curse of calling Richard Blackwell my father in any sense, and so I'm afraid those charges are grossly incorrect."

"Your impertinence," The Inquistor replied, his tone sharp, "will do you no favours with the Consul, boy. Richard Blackwell _is _your father under Idrisian law. He has sheltered, fed, and raised you for seventeen years. It matters not who your _real _father was."

The Inquistor turned to leave, and Theo realised that he wanted to keep him there – for more information. "But why the Consul? Sir?" Theo called after him. The Inquistor whirled.

"Because this is your fifth visit to the Gard, Theodore. We have clearly been far too lenient with your past transgressions – and now you have committed a crime that your father is arguing warrants banishment."

_His step-father wanted him banished? _Theo felt numb with horror. Theo tried to reply, but his mind sheeted blank.

"Good luck, Theodore Blackwell." The inquisitor turned his back to him.

"Herondale," he shouted.

"What?" The inquisitor stopped in his tracks.

"My name. Is Theodore _Herondale."_

The Inquistor stood there for a moment longer, as if contemplating this, and then marched off into the darkness.


End file.
